Dear Eva,

On the morning you turn eleven, I am sipping coffee and procrastinating.  You've already eaten your breakfast (4 courses, a new record for you) and bounded off to pajama day at school.  Class treats in hand and with the promise of our lunch date, you shouted "I love you!" as the car door closed in your wake.  I should be assembling your cake or starting your guacamole or picking up the house for your guests.  But I opened a picture album to find you on your first birthday.  So now I sit astounded at how far you've come since being covered in blue frosting and strapped into a high chair your tiny legs barely dangled from.

Who knew that, while you sleepily chewed through your first pound of sugar, you would grow into such a devoted lover of all things except pink and K State?  When you were lugging that giant red ball through our tiny yard, I could never have predicted that you would spend the next decade in perpetual motion slowed (though never fully stopped) only by sleep and nachos.  I remember you spent your whole party clinging to me, quietly begging the family assembled in our little living room to get the hell out of your house.  Tucked under my arm, my sweet round eyed girl craved the anonymity that we thought could only come with being a little sister... Years later we realized there's a more quiet place to hide - as the middle girl.

You, my love, are hopeful and brave.  You conquer fears and inspire goals.  You are the first plan I ever made that exceeded itself before my eyes.  You challenge and you change.  You love with complete abandon and you proudly wear the love you earn in the width of your grin.

I am your quiet, you are my wild.

I love you, sunshine.

Always, 

Mama

To you three

To the people who one day sweep my girls off their feet,

I wish I knew you now.  I'd really love to stalk your school recess or sit in the back of your band concerts.  I'd like to sit behind you in middle school Language Arts and see what you scribble in the margins.  I want to know you, while you're still innocent and open, and have a hand in guiding you down the right roads.  Because I worry that, before your path intersects with my girl's highway (or rose petal strewn red carpet - depending on who chooses you), you will make too many wrong turns to recognize the prize you win at the end.

My girl.

Whichever one you claim as yours, you will be getting the dream of a mother who just wanted more for them.  You will be the benefactor of every belief I struggled with and every moment of pride she inspires.  You are one of the luckiest three people on earth, and on this warm February afternoon twenty years too early - you have no idea.

The woman who will love you won't be easy, but I hope to not make her impenetrable.  She will know of my doubts in love, but I promise to let her believe.  While I will never tell her stories of happily ever after, ever after will always be her plan.  The woman heading toward you will be, if I have my way, mostly light with only slivers of shadow.  She will be strong without overbearing.  Cautious but never afraid.  Gentle with you but moreso with herself.

Or maybe she won't.

Because the woman you will one day sweep off of her feet is, at this moment, a girl with her mama's eyes but her very own spirit.  If you watched her at recess you'd see that she is equal parts shy and headstrong.  If you played the trombone in her jazz band, you'd already know that she has a laugh that makes the room grow - and a sense of humor that is completely her own.  If you tried to sit beside her in Language Arts, you would quickly discover that she cannot sit still nor be consumed with your affections.

Oh, sweet boy (or girl), the hand you will one day hold used to fit into my palm with room to grow.  So, please hear me when I say:  I would warn you now if I could.  She will be an extraordinary woman when you find her.  Just be patient with her heart.  If it's guarded, that's my fault.  If it is one day yours, that's her choice.  Be a good choice.  

And I promise to try to remember that you used to play on swings and sing off-key.  I promise to be exactly as soft on you as you are for her.  I swear to give you exactly one less chance than she does.  The best I can do is my daughter - the best you can do should hope to equal that.

Sincerely,

Her mama.

It's just fat

Can we talk about boobs for a second.

No, really.  Just for a second, draw your attention away from her eyes (why yes, they are a lovely shade of brown) and force your eyes upon her cleavage.  I know it's hard, but do it for posterity or whatever.

Two balls of fat.  That's it.  I don't even know what they're there for.

That's not true.  I try hard to maintain constant honesty, and I just lied right there.  I actually know exactly why those two balls of fat are placed on the front of the female human.

Free drinks.

And warnings rather than tickets.

And distraction from actual conversations.

Other than that, though, no real purpose.

So what's the big freakin deal?  

I posted a pic of myself on Facebook looking like a beached whale.  No kidding.  I had just finished my second sixty day round of the torture known as Insanity, and I took a quick picture of my revelry.

No makeup, sweaty, hair a mess, in an oversized workout top, sports bra & pants.

Absolutely nothing appealing about the photograph.

But apparently I was looking at it wrong because, according to the numerous texts I received, my boobs were hanging out.

My grown up, mama of three, not nearly as glorious as they once were, smooshed into a sports bra boobs.  

First of all, they are attached by muscle, nerves and skin.  I cannot remove them.  These boobs are here to stay - though I imagine their southern journey will someday place them somewhere in the vicinity of my shins.

Second, why is it such a big deal?  If my love handles and larger than life thighs can be whispered about, why must my more northern fat regions be exalted on high?

I want to understand.

That's another lie.  I really don't care to understand.

Though, if you have a reasonable answer, I'd love to hear it.

If you're a good one, they're listening... And I found proof.

A pretty remarkable thing happened - happened three times, actually.  Someone made me a mother.  Not someone really, three daughters made me a mother.

Am I a good one?  Eh, on a good day, I'd say I'm averaging a 60% chance they won't ever work a pole or release a video shaking what their - well, what I - gave them.  On a forGod'sakejustputonacleanshirtbrushthetoptwolayersofslimefromyourteethandlet'sgo day, I'd say that average drops a few points.  But, hey, I'm trying.

The thing about daughters though, at least the thing I've worried about most lately is:  are they paying any attention?  When they see me keeping a house clean and safe, do they store that in their cluttered minds for the day when they finally (?) stop shoving Pandora's spare closet under their beds?  When I stress how important school is, can they hear me over the monotonous drone of the pretty definitely future dropout teen mom besties?  And when, at the end of a particularly trying day, we still snuggle for an extra minute and read that last book one more time; will they remember that I love them regardless of the attitudes and angst?

I guess there's no way to know but to wait.

Except, I got to see what is at the end of the road when a truly superb mother rests with her daughter.

A mother who also wondered if her baby girl was hearing her at all.

Guess what:  if you do it right, they're listening.

They're watching you mop those floors, and they will stay up late to do it when you can't.

They're standing in your bathroom doorway rolling their eyes, but they will lotion your head while waiting for your hair to grow back.

Yes, you are driving them crazy, but they will keep your wig fabulous and make sure your meds are taken on time.  They will drop everything to wear your shoes and hold your hand - if you're a good one.

If you're the kind of mother that inspires the kind of selfless devotion that brings a remarkable daughter to your side, there are certain undeniable truths to be found.  Number one being this:  you did it right.

They are definitely listening.

Goodbye

Goodbye is brutal.

It's looking at every breath you have left and knowing their eyes will never fall on yours again.

It's marking off a destination, a haven or a hole, that you called your own on the only map you have to use.

And, whether it's a choice or a misfortune, goodbye changes the shape of your step.

Goodbye is honest.

It's letting go because of every reason you can't deny and every excuse you are blinded by.

It's accepting the power you wield or the complete impotence you despise.

Sometimes, saying goodbye is the most truth you can carry with you out the door.

Goodbye is a gift.

Not every love knows how deep it runs and the weight of honor isn't felt on the shoulders of everyone who earns it.

Not everyone gets to see the hole before they're chest deep; and, being able to take a deep breath first gives you a better chance at making it to the other side.

On the hardest of days, the last goodbyes are the ones you unwrap slowly.  Savor the flavor of their voice as the last honor they give to you.

Goodbye is brave.

And, whether quiet or deafening, in a crowd or the privacy of a warm kitchen table, challenged or broken, goodbye is impossibly beautiful.

Sh!t, Stupid elf!

I probably should have been thinking deeper thoughts.  And, I did for awhile.  Then I remembered that I had forgotten to move the elf before I left that morning.  So, thoughts quickly went from, "I told the girls  I love them this morning, right?" to, "stupid freaking Robert...I certainly can't blame them touching him on the ceiling fan."

And that was the rest of my MRI time.

Yeah, I wasn't going to start this with the stroke.  Because this isn't about that.

It's about my Maya, coming home from visiting me on a surprise visit to the cardiac floor of a hospital to discover a piece of magic isn't really magic at all - It's just mama moving a stuffed animal around the house.

And that simply breaks my heart.

She is the last one to believe, so I kept moving that ridiculous thing every night.  The fun she had looking for him was worth the stress of finding new places to stick him.  And, I forgot to move him.

So, while laying perfectly still for the tests that would determine what happened (just a small stroke caused by stress), my mind raced over how to fix the problem.  I half expected the tech to tell me he saw an elf laughing at me in my brain, but no such luck.

Anyway, love your kids and tell them every single morning,

And don't forget to move the stupid elf no matter what.  They need all the magic they can get.

Not to be placed on a mantle and too busy collecting them to simply be trophies

I'm not raising decorative girls.

Girls who chase boys and bat eyelashes.

I'm teaching warriors.  Lionesses.  Freaking goddesses.

Book reading, race winning, mind blowing girls.

Are they beautiful?  Hell yes, do you even have eyes?!, but that's the least of it.

They are strong enough to choose which games they want to play.  And skilled enough to beat you at each of them.  They are witty enough to out talk anyone, but selective enough to avoid the drama of idiocy.

Yes, their eyes are beautiful.  Wide open and dark, but absolutely never half closed in a flutter.

Extraordinary beauty, and power beyond my wildest dreams - but absolutely never voiceless in struggle.

Flexible yet unwavering girls.  

Wise and thoughtful girls.

World altering yet mostly humble girls.

Proud and confident girls.

These girls will be women that change you.  Those women will be the kind you marvel at from your perch outside of their wingspan.

So, for now, hold your breath and count my blessings. 

Because, while they have the kind of beauty usually reserved for sunsets and myths, I am not raising decorative pieces.

These girls, my girls, are now and will only grow to be more supremely compelling.

All we can do is hold on and applaud as they go by.